Elves! Haarith and the Scorpion’s sting

With a way-point taken from the squat sons of Durin, Haarith and his men had taken a huge step towards creating great trade relations with the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. Once the dwarves fled, Haarith and his men established a perimeter and held their positions.

Their orders were to await the arrival of a band of orcs who would take control of the camp from there. They waited a week, until a decent crowd of Goblins, including the one with the message before, who would be taking refuge for now.

“I will pray to the ancestors that you do not forget who it was that took this land for your masters, imp,” Haarith snapped at the tiny goblin atop the warg. Then, He gestured to a large building, on which the sign of the scorpion of Abrakhan had been scrawled in purple and gold paint. “But my spear-brother Yazan does not trust the ancestors that much.”

“You cur!” The goblin dismounted, more or less falling on his face. How he has taken a leadership position if any kind could not be imagined. “You insult me and my master by leaving this here! We know who to pay when the time comes. You’ll get your gold in the south. But now you have made this ruin an obvious sign of the Harad having been here. Any passers by will see it. Makes it an obvious  target for…”

Haarith stepped to the goblin with frightening speed, his new poisoned spear to the throat of the runt, interrupting him. “Maybe that will be all the more reason for you and your kin to keep a better eye out for it this time rather than falling to dwarfs axes.”

Bakr and Abaan came to back their leader, but again Yazvan intervened. “We’ve cleared the land and claimed it in our own way. If your masters can’t deal with a little flair, they can take that up with The Golden King. This is our culture and we will do as we please at victory.”

“Ugh… fair enough.” spat the goblin. “Here’s more orders. Deliver this  to our kin in the east, in the southern forests of the Great forest near Dol Guldur. The map will tell you where to go.”

Haarith took the map. “We can find the way. ” With that, Haarith mounted his new horse and he and his men went down the road. Their message was meant to be delivered as soon as possible. It was given to Bakr for safe keeping as they traveled the road. And it was during this journey that the Scorpion’s Sting came upon their next battle.

It was near a small stream that Harad warriors came across a small band of High Elves… fully armored… they could see it in their eyes they were in need of the same type of speed that was needed by the Harad. A messenger was on its way to someone with a letter of great import. The Haradrim quickly formed up and stood their ground, firing at the one archer of the enemy. These prim and proper elves could not be brought down by arrows. Multiple volleys did nothing. So it was that Haarith could not wait any more. He charged in with his mount and with that he was ready to ride down this archer. His men stayed back to be able to take some shots at the enemy. It was then that the elves charged the hasty lieutenant of Harad, surrounding him and his horse.

Haarith was ready, though… but  it was then that his brashness was met with a fateful moment. Na’Man saw a chance to bring down the elf scum and shot his bow… but a sudden slip of the finger lead to a shot going right through the arm of Haarith’s left arm… and he fell from his horse, and the horse fled. Na’Man saw his leader fall in horror. He would get the lash for that…

This was the beginning of the end of battle. Bakr and Abaan and the rest charged in … Bakr stayed in the back, knowing his message was more important than his leader’s life.

One by one, the rest of them succumbed to the the enemy until only Bakr and Na’man were left… but the message had to be delivered. Bakr and Na’man retreated as quickly as they could, being chased by the fleet feet of the Elves behind them. They ran and ran and finally dove into the river beside them and were swept down-stream. The swift river would nearly drown them, but it sped them away so the elves could not give chase.

Bakr and Na’man eventually made their way near the battle field, where they met their limping and bleeding friends. When the Haradrim finally made their way to a cave in the Misty Mountains, They tended their wounds. Haarith could barely use this arm, and so they slung it.

When they had all sat themselves down to rest, Haarith finally spoke his mind. “Your incompetence today cannot be over stated!” he shouted. “And you!” He turned to Na’man. “Your shotty bow work could have killed me! I hope you are prepared to deal with the consequences!” Haarith unstrung his bow, now useless to him with a wounded arm. “Bakr, Abaan. Bind him.” They used the bow string to tie his hands to a tree. Haarith manically began stripping the armor and clothes from his back. The horn, ivory and sinew of the Haradrim Bow whistled as the wounded leader beat the bare back of his underling. Once. Twice. Seven times. Ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. With one more mighty THWACK! the bow was shattered. The young warrior’s back was bleeding profusely. But no tears came from the perpetrator. This was not the time to show weakness. The warriors of Harad do no show fear. They have no other option but to take their beatings.

“Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.” Haarith was seething. The incompetence! The utter stupidity! The only man it seems he could count on was Bakr. “I hope you will learn from this… failure.” And so he stormed off to be alone.

Haarith was livid. What would he tell the masters back home? Fortunately the message was still in their possession, anything less than victory is a loss in the eyes of the Golden King of Abrakhan, and  “We need more men. I won’t be much use with one arm, mounted or no! and we still must deliver this message to the Orcs of Dol Guldur.” He contemplated for over an hour , always coming back to what sort of punishment could be received from his masters on his return. But he also came back to another thought. “We need more men.”

Then he made quick letter in the language of his people. He went back to his men. “Stay here, Mumak, dung. I will return. Bakr, you take the lead.” At this Abaan eyed his rival up and down.

With that, Haarith mounted up and rode back to the Way point from which they came. After a few hours ride, he saw the orcs, lounging about. “So this how they repay our labor to return this place to them,” he thought. “Vermin. A drunken, slothful recline, as if after a hard slog. Meanwhile, we find ourselves against an enemy we barely know!“ But he kept his mouth shut for the moment. Yazan’s wisdom had taught him at least some things.

“Welcome back, Southron!” said the stunted Goblin, feeding his warg. “What happened to you?” he croaked, seeing the arm wound. then he began trembling and pulled his knife, realizing that this could mean a fight nearby. “Where are your men? are there more out there?”

“It doesn’t matter. The elven filth are gone. I bring a message to be sent to my masters in Abrakhan. Can you get it there?”

“Yes i can. What is it for?”

“That is for me to know, alone.”

“Very well. We’ll send it as quick as we can. No promises,” he said as he turned to hand the message to a warg-mounted courier. “They way south is crawling with Whiteskins, both horse lords and the bastards with the Tree. Are you sure there’s no more elves about?”

When he turned back, Haarith had already mounted and was riding away, and shouted, “It may be that they are! It would be good for you to keep a look out!”

As he rode away, in the distance he heard a faint, ”You Oliphaunt riding rats are such bastards!”

Through Spiders and Darkness

Wailing, screaming and whimpering echoed throughout the eastern foothills of the Misty Mountains. The captured goblin was not one to suffer silently, as he made his pain known to all that could hear him. The company feared that the cacophonous wailing would draw all of the enemies east of the Misty Mountains to them. They tried beating him, but he only yelled more. They tried ignoring him, but he only called them by name. In a final attempt at silencing Gitnick, Corunir gave him food and loosened his bonds. Surprising this worked, but Brognir was not happy that the wants of an evil creature had been appeased. Gitnick transformed from a whimpering pitiful creature, to a servile simpleton.

During this transformation, Gitnick repaid his captors for their mercy by giving them what they wanted. He began talking about a small unknown trail upon the edge of Mirkwood. He claimed that it would lead to the dark masters that were driving the orcs to the mountains.

It took them two weeks to travel from the Misty Mountains to Mirkwood, however they did not yet enter, for the trail was further south. As they made their way south along the forests edge, the trees began to grow closer and closer together. Then when it seemed as if each tree was choking the other, a small partition appeared. The darkness of the path made it stand out amongst the many trees. Each member of the company entered the dark path one by one as it was not large enough to allow them to walk abreast one another.

As they made their way through the trail a sense of dread crept up upon the company. It became darker and darker as they proceeded through. Gitnick, who had almost constantly made noise since his capture, was now quite. He began to say “It won’t be long until we meet the dark ones, they lie further down the path”. Brognir then took his spear to Gitnick’s throat , threatening him with death, and said “If you betray us, you betray your own life”. Gitnick replied “Me only showing nice rangers what they asked for, I no trick you. Me too dumb for that”. Brognir was however not convinced and made it his personal mission to make sure that the captive did nothing outside of his sight. That night they found a small clearing and made camp.

Many hours went by underneath the darkness of the trees, but none could really tell when the night ended and the day began. When each had their rest they began treading down the path once more. Before long the path became cluttered with thick webs that could barely be cut through. When the webs became so thick that they could scarcely make their way through, Gitnick started yelling hysterically. Brognir tried to silence him, but before he could do anything large dark skittering shapes could be seen amongst the trees. Arrows sung forth from the rangers as they huddled together in a defensive circle. Large spiders hungry for fresh meet had the company. The spiders skittering between the trees made them hard to hit, and their ghoulish appearance made the hearts of the ranger’s race in terror. They began shooting their sticky webs incapacitating some of the rangers, but each of them fought on stabbing and slashing at the dark shapes as they lunged into the melee. Whenever a spider fell, another took its place. They would have to escape if they were to get out alive. One by one some of the rangers fell to the sticky embrace of the webs. The situation was looking dim, but out of nowhere arrows came out of the darkness pierced the spiders.

Out of the darkness stepped a group of elves dressed in greens and browns. Each of them had a bow in their hands and a dagger at their side. As happy as the rangers were to see the elves, they did not appear so joyful. The elves looked upon them with disdain and clearly thought them fools for having needed rescuing. The elves said nothing, but pointed further down the path, seemingly knowing what the company sought.

The engagement with the spiders and the visitation of the elves was so quick and chaotic that No one individual could really know everything that was going on. After all was said and done Gitnick could not be found, and had presumably escaped. Brognir felt personally responsible as he took the task upon himself to do correctly. He cursed himself and the slippery goblin, but could not allow himself to be overcome with guilt. Despite his failing, he pressed on as the company made its way down the path once again.

So far the path had been dark due to the closeness of the trees, but now the trees themselves were different. They were gnarled, withered, and diseased specimens that somehow produced an even thicker layer of canopy. The degree of their sickliness became more pronounced as they made their way further and further into the darkness. When the trees became so sickly that none believed they still lived, a lone dark tower atop a bald hill could begin to be seen in the distance. Dark pillars of smoke, and moving throngs of small shapes could be seen emanating from the foreboding structure. The company stealthily made their way to the dark tower, creeping as quietly as possible. As they got closer, the shapes began to sharpen and turned into orcs, goblins and even swarthy looking men. Before the great host, was a group of nine darkly clad figures, all clad in the heaviest of armor. Where there should have been a face, there was nothing but a terrifying empty void that seemed to be sucking the light in from around it. They turned to the massed throngs and spoke in the blackest of tongues, and in response the masses rose up their blades and spilt their own blood for their new masters. In turn, each of the nine had a pouch that they gave to the leaders of the eclectic assembly. What the rangers could not understand in speech they could in action. These terrible figures were promising more than a simple pouch of gold, this was just a taste of what is to come. Quickly Tarandir had the company retreat and make their way back to the tower. The captain must know of the evil in Mirkwood.

Drunken Ambush

The fires had long died out and the sound of content snoring rose through the night air.  The embers of the fire cast a very small bit of reddish light over the slumbering orcs, who had made it to the edge of Mirkwood after surviving the ambush of the spiders.

Creeping stealthily away from the camp, Iggy Yellowmug grasped a tankard of black syrupy grog and slurped it down happily.  He hated the forest, hated the smells, and hated the spiders, but the first real victory that his companions had achieved had brightened his foul mood considerably.

Padding next to him, the cowardly scout Lister looked about nervously.  He was picking at the crud and dirt under his blackened finger nails with an iron dagger, and his warg growled with annoyance at not being able to rest.

“Snaga is growing more powerful.”  Iggy remarked, tossing the now-empty tankard to the side and wiping his mouth with the back of a dirty arm.  “Pretty soon he’ll have us grovelin in the muck and cleanin up his bidness.”  The orc let out a loud belch that echoed through the night.

“Shut your pie hole idiot, we may be out of the depths of that Mirkwood, but them spiders is still lurkin about and we aint no match for…” Lister’s statement was cut abrupt by the emergence of a stranger that seemingly stepped out of the blackness of the night.

Clad in a black cape that shrouded a fully armored body and a crowning helm that added another six inches of height, the man cut a powerful figure.  Lister immediately drew his blade and his warg prepared to charge the lone warrior, while Iggy stared dumbfounded in his drunken stupor.

“Sheathe your weapon, tool of the master.  I have been sent by the dark one to guide your leader and your company back to the road of the righteous.  Your failures will be righted.”  The man said.

“I must be dreamin.  There’s a bloke in the forest tryin to tell us what is ‘appenin?”  Iggy said, reaching for his blade, but finding nothing as he had forgotten his weapon back at the camp some distance away.

“The master sent you you say?”  Lister said, partial fear creeping into his voice.  His mount continued to growl in a low perfunctory manner.  “‘ow do we know this aint some kind of trick?  That you aint one of them rangers?”

The man grinned behind his iron helm, and drew a wicked blade of steel the like fashioned in the furnaces of Angmar.  A Black Numenorean, and foot-soldier of the Witch King.

“Together we will accomplish a great many things.”  The man said through clenched teeth.  “I am Gorn.  Gorn the Black.  My blade is at your leader Snaga’s service.  He has been chosen by our master and your loyalty must be absolute.”  The clanking sound of his plate armor was soft, as if suppressed by leathers or sorcery.

The two orcs looked at each other for a moment, aware that the man had overheard their conversation concerning Snaga moments before.

A branch snapped out in the darkness, and a voice called out full of scorn.

“What do we have here?  Are we interruptin’ an orcish weddin’!  Well bless your heart, I am having a score to settle with your kind tonight and look who happens upon our path!  Look sharp lads!  We got ourselves some orc filth to kill!”

The voice belonged to a stout dwarf who stepped out from the trees.  Several more accompanied, two holding crossbows.  Both were aimed at Iggy’s head.

Lister made a whining noise as he clicked his tongue in command to his warg, preparing to flee for his life.  Only Gorn appeared unconcerned, deftly swinging his sword in great arcs and turning to face the dwarf company, who gave pause at the man’s display for a moment.

It is a wise person that exercises caution when a Black Numenorean appears arrayed for war before you, as any old wife will tell her children and their children’s children.

Mission:  Rescue

Synopsis:  The dwarf force stumbled upon Iggy’s drunken nighttime walk and is tasked with killing the orc hero.  He is accompanied by two other models (Lister and Gorn the Black).  Mr. Slave and the other orcs will arrive across the table and enter on turn one, but the dwarfs deploy 18″ into the table… putting them almost into direct contact with Iggy.

Victory Conditions:  The dwarfs must slay Iggy.  The orcs must reduce the dwarfs down to below 50% and keep Iggy alive.

Initiative:  The dwarfs always start out with priority.

Jon would be commanding his dwarf company after losing the Mirkwood scenario.   He would have seven dwarfs as one was injured from the battle with the spiders still.

Mr. Slave’s force had just come off of a victory against the spiders of Mirkwood and were at twelve strong, seven of which are now heroes!  The point discrepancy would give the dwarfs two re-rolls and two bonus influence points.

The game begins with the dwarf leader Mhulo calling for a heroic march and burning a might point.  This would let the dwarfs move forward an extra 3″ and the ram rider (in this picture on the larger base… Jon’s models haven’t arrived from Nottingham yet) an extra 5″.

Iggy and Lister both retreat back as fast as they can, with Lister shielding Iggy and Gorn posted in front with the hopes of his Terror kicking in and stopping a charge or two.

Mr. Slave and his forces arrive and begin the long march foward.  Slave is calling out to Iggy to move faster and join the orc formation so that they can drive the sodding orcs off, while Blish the assassin and the orc bowman Tasty position themselves on an elevated position to try and provide some supporting fire.

Blish and Tasty loose their arrows at the ram rider, but a sweet sweet pair of snake eyes see both black arrows streak off into the woods far off from their target.

Iggy and Gorn reach the main orc line, while Lister peels off to the flank, outside of the ram rider’s range but enough to threaten the flank.

Unfortunately, a dwarf with a crossbow had taken up position in the tree 20″ away.  The dwarf hero Thoif grinned to himself and squeezed the firing lever on his weapon.  The bolt sprang out, and a “5” was rolled to hit (good).  The In-The-Way roll for Gorn the Black was passed with a “4”.  All that was left was the wound, as Iggy had no fate point.

A “6” was tossed.

Iggy dropped to the ground, squealing in pain as the bolt buried itself in his ass cheek.  The dwarfs laughed loud and were filled with mirth as they blended back into the night.  Victory was theirs.

Mr. Slave walked over to the wailing Iggy and looked down at him with contempt.  The twin ghost-lights that shone in Slave’s eyes terrified all that looked upon him, and Iggy’s heart clenched at his leader’s look of scorn.

“Failure you are.  You will carry the drum Iggy Yellow Mug.”  Mr. Slave’s boot lashed out, catching Iggy in the face and knocking the orc warrior unconscious.

End Result:  Dwarf Victory

Upgrades and Post-Battle:  Thoif the dwarven hero leveled and received Steady Aim.  Additionally, Jon bought him a dwarf bow to benefit this new skill and a concealing cloak.   The dwarf leader Mhulo spent influence on an healing herb.

Mr. Slave’s force didn’t receive much at all.  Nothing leveled up.  The influence was spent on buying a war drum which Iggy Yellow Mug will now carry (and a model must be painted in his honor… and the orc in question will indeed have a yellow face).

With that, Mr. Slave’s February battles come to an end and we look to March and the end of Part I of the campaign which happens to lie during Adepticon at our Campaign Day.


Siren Call

A tale of ancient magicks and fierce rivalries

​Dolvin spun his heel into the dirt, and out of reflex his broad shield raised defensively as he listened again for that old familiar sound. His brother Duk, Mhulo’s right hand, sheathed his short sword and made eye contact- they nodded grimly. Their sparring session was over, but it was only to welcome the rush of real conflict: today, once again, they would dance with death.

Bark erupted from the tree next to Dolvin, and he shielded his face from the wooden shrapnel. He had known right- the sound of arrows loosed from their bows, and the sharp *WHIZZ* as they took flight towards their intended target. They had been spotted, but the dwarves knew not from where. The arrow that had impacted against the tree found its rest next to Duk’s foot- an oily black shaft thick as an iron rod, fletched with the bloody feathers of some ill-fated foul.

“Kemlek!” the brothers shouted together.

Per the snores still emanating from the Kemlek’s full beard, it seemed he had not been stirred quite yet, despite his shouting kin. The damned dwarf could sleep through anything, barring perhaps a kick to the gut.

​“UP! YOU BLOODY LOG, THERE’S ORC TER BE FIGHTIN’” Dolvin belted, and accentuated his alert with a swift kick to the sleeping dwarf’s side.

“AYE, I been dreamin’ o’ it, fer certain!” Came Kemlek’s rumblings. He had muttered more than that, but neither Duk nor Dolvin had the time to coax sense out of the groggy, and potentially drunk, fighter- all they needed was his mattock and his violent companionship.

Keeping low to the ground, the dwarves quickly found some shelter behind a section of downed trees. Behind them, Mhulo rounded the statue from where he had been honing his weapon and called out to the others.

“Any o’ you lot seen Thoif? Last I saw he was out on his watch!”
Another arrow whizzed past Kemlek’s tree, and rustled the bushes near where their camp lay.

“No sight o’ ‘im since he took his rounds.” Replied Duk. “We could use that bow o’ his ‘bout now.”

Dolvin cursed their fates. Why couldn’t these foul creatures come out and fight them face to face like a true warrior! He lifted his shield once more and peered out towards the direction the arrows had come from. Then all was revealed to him.

On the open hill to their direct west, a small Uruk-hai conclave gathered at its apex, hastily fortifying their overlook with anything they could grab with their greasy black and red hands. Their leader was a monstrous foe, towering and clad in the crude but effective metal plate oft boasted by their kind. An Uruk sword he clasped in one hand, a spiked shield in the other. Archers loosed more arrows towards the dwarves, but they skittered off of tree trunks and disappeared into the dirt before them.

“Oi! Mhulo! To the Northwest, on the rocks. He’s low!” called out Duk in hushed tones.

Dolvin adjusted his eyesight, and saw exactly what his brother spoke of- Thoif had found a vantage point atop a rocky outcropping over-looking the Uruk defenses. He lay prone, neatly tucked onto the rocks, his dark armor acting as a disguise against the dark granite.

“That’s it then, lads. Thoif has the make of it. On his mark, we act as one and charge into their formation. Duk and Dolvin to the fore- hoist thy shields high, and level thy war spears low.” Mhulo ordered.

“Fighting uphill, sir? With what army?” contended Duk.

“They may outnumber us, but it is not enough for them old friend. Do not doubt Thoif’s aim, for they shall outnumber us even less when battle is met.” Explained Mhulo. “Kemlek, trail low behind the shield wall and break loose once we join the fray. The cursed orc sport archers of their own, and we’d all be worse off without your ire in combat.”

​“Bugger the dirty orc archers! ‘Ave ‘em throw down those twig shooters and draw sword to fight me t’my face!” Exclaimed Kemlek. With that he brandished his mattock, gripping the leather tight and firm, and he crouched low, stance ready to run uphill.

Dolvin fixed his eyes back to Thoif, and in an instant he saw the signal they were all waiting for. Thoif let loose the first bolt, and its course stayed true, streaking down to punch a hole in the chest plate of the Uruk nearest the edge of their makeshift holdfast. Remarkably, a second bolt plummeted into the midst of the screaming throng, bringing down a scout clad in greasy brown and black leather- all before the minions of the Dark Lord knew what was happening. Thoif was surely earning his reputation as a marksman, and Dolvin thanked Durin that he was present to aid them.

Mhulo rose to full height, pointed forth his mattock to the confused crowd of rowdy Uruk, and turned to the others.

“NOW! For Durin and the Iron Hills! BARUK KHAZAD!!” bellowed Mhulo, charging up the hill to take advantage of the confusion.

His brothers in arms followed suit. Kemlek roared his approval and echoed Mhulo’s own battle cry. To their east, Dolvin spotted another Dwarf assaulting the hillside, lengthy, razor sharp war spear thrust forward in advance. Nasek had returned? Without his war goat? Curious indeed, but Dolvin cared not where his help arrived from- so long as it arrived.

Dolvin and Duk exchanged one final glance as they advanced, sharing a wordless bond.

“’Til the end, brother.”


The Dwarves of the Iron Hills tasted defeat that day. Whatever malevolent force guided the hands of the enemy was keen and precise. Whilst the hardy dwarven armor bore by Mhulo’s company stood hard against the meager arrows of the enemy, in fierce combat the Uruk’s numbers overwhelmed them, and they were forced to retreat into the forest.

For leagues the dwarves fell back, they could not afford to be caught by the enemy. Kemlek bore Mhulo’s weight- his chest wound had reopened in the battle with the ferocious leader of the Uruk-hai. Nasek had been courageous and unrelenting with his war spear, but had been surrounded and taken down with a wound to his leg. Dolvin was able to intervene in time for the Uruk to take flight, their leader ushering them elsewhere.

The forest continued to close in, becoming denser by the minute. Preternatural darkness started to fall in around the weary coterie. Finally after what seemed like hours, Dolvin pushed into a small clearing, Nasek in arm.

A small cottage stuck out amidst the vast labyrinth of wood and darkness. Its dim lights flickered through the windows, candles lit in observance of some sort of religious ceremony, or perhaps merely to see- Dolvin cared not, he could only guess. There remained no visual sign of occupation in the small farm, but a soft, sweet lullaby floated through the air. The feeling of belonging, of being loved, of being safe from harm. The sweet, sweet song- it warmed them all.
The others stopped to catch their breaths, and to rest their injuries. Dolvin lowered Nasek to the tall grass as he collapsed of weariness, ready to rest. Mhulo was given rest by a fallen tree covered in spongy moss. Kemlek was covered in blood.

The dwarves needed the help of the farmers, so Dolvin decided to ask for it. His armor jangled as he moved his impossibly heavy legs, and everything seemed so slow. His body needed to shut down, to rest. To find the peace he and his kin so desired, he had to open that wooden cottage door. He stepped onto the wooden door front, raised his mailed fist, and knocked.

But he didn’t knock.

There was no door.

There was no cottage.

There was no light.

Everything faded into a mist, and reality itself crumbled around Dolvin’s eyes-leaving him desolate in complete darkness. He was scared, for the first time in his life. A warrior of near unmatched martial prowess, reduced to emotion and desperation.

​Dolvin turned back to where the others were, only to find that there was no one.

“What foul sorcery…” he muttered, breathless.

Dolvin fell to his knees, consciousness escaping his overworked mind and body. As his head fell to the grass, his senses caught one last fleeting sound. The sound was laced with a malice that dripped through his ears, ageless in its eternal hatred, burning the very inside of his head. Dolvin screamed, but there was no noise.

“Welcome to Mirkwood, my friend.”

Of Goats and Hedgehogs

​Winter frosts had turned to Spring rains, and it was justly said that these rains in particular would seemingly never end. The chirping of the insects surrounding Thoif and company became a thunderous annoyance, and he could hardly stand it any longer. All of the dwarves had been in their moods of late , with never-ending downpours weighing down their boots as well as their spirits.

​With a miffed grunt Thoif hoisted his crossbow and stood from the log he had called his resting place. Streams of suffocating moisture rolled off the divots in the dark metallic armor, falling to miniature lakes where the dwarf stood. He was exasperated to the point of action- no longer could he sit and stare needlessly at the chittering bugs clambering for harbor from the relentless rains. He needed to take watch to distract himself from his thoughts, and so he did.

​Thoif made his way through the party’s campground, carefully stepping around a snoring Kemlek. How that dwarf slept in this dread weather baffled Thoif, but it was no matter. Duk and Dolvin sparred silently amidst a small, cleared patch of grass, trading practiced lunging maneuvers and defensive stances. Mhulo was awake whetting the axe head of his mattock, his back against an old broken statue resembling that of a man holding some sort of tome; Time and Nature ensured the features were well worn and nigh unrecognizable. Mhulo spotted Thoif, and with but a curt nod of recognition continued his tasks.

Mhulo’s wound from their encounters with the raiding Orc warbands in the Coldfells had been healing well. Many times better than expected, if truth were told. Almost unnaturally the wounds sped up their healing processes- but then again the means by which they were treated were not exactly natural. As Thoif rounded an elongated boulder lined with drooping purple vines, he corrected the course for his patrol and brought up the memories of fortnights past……

The sound of hooves thudded repetitively in the distance. The dwarves pulled up and formed a defensive perimeter around their wounded and ailing leader- all of them exhausted, their heavy, rapid breaths fogging up the morning air. They had been fleeing for nearly a day, should it be much longer and they would surely perish from lack of rest and supplies.

After their stalemate with an Orc warband led by some evil creature with a whip, they fled south to find respite somewhere, anywhere that had yet been touched by the foul taint of the dark minions. Here they were found, and here they would make their stand. But what creatures of Evil would be riding mounts with hooves?

Seconds would pass, and they would know the answer.
Thoif readied his crossbow, sliding a bolt into place and cranking the lever. With a *CLICK*, the taut string pulled and set. Wordlessly, Duk and Dolvin flanked Thoif. They planted their heavy iron shields, and lowered their war spears. Kemlek shouted a hardly intelligible insult at whatever was coming, and dug his feet into the ground next to Mhulo. At this juncture, the fetid wound in their leader’s chest was surely going to be the end of him. Dwarves were known far and wide for their belligerent nature- the fact that the company had made it this far without losing Mhulo outright was a testament to his resolve and fortitude.

The clamor finally rounded the hill behind which their small, weary party stood- and a sigh of palpable relief washed itself over the dwarves; this was soon followed by joviality, and in turn, quite unexpectedly, curiosity. In any case, the dwarves lowered their guard, welcoming the sight in front of them as a lost Halfling to its mother’s breast.

A large mountain goat barreled around the corner; a glorious and noble armoured steed ridden by a dwarf- and someone else. The goat rode up to the circle of dwarves and slid to a halt, the rider on the rear hopping off almost clumsily. This being bore dirty brown cloaks, and wore a hat of some sort of fur. He had a long beard, was as tall as a human man, and had a lopsided gait that was almost, just almost, intentional.

“Many thanks for the ride my friend! It seems your horned companion has a heart of fire- almost as if he sensed the dire need of your kin.” The stranger said. “Back in the long ago I too had a majestic goat friend, he was very good at finding my stores of fruits and nuts, irritatingly. But I digress! AH, what we have here my weary looking…. Dwarves eh? Not that I should be too far surprised, I just travelled all sorts of distances with your-“

A gurgling laugh came from Mhulo as he lay on the ground, apparently pleased or amused at what he was witnessing. Whatever it was broke the stranger’s rambling.

​“Oh dear, yes, so sorry my friend. I forget myself. My name is Aiwendil. I’ve been following your little party for a moon’s minute. I had means to catch up to you myself, I’ve got some extravagantly quick hares that adore a good sprint, but I found your friend Nasek here and just couldn’t say no to a goat ride! Thankfully the steed found me fit for a travel partner, otherhow he’d have probably thrown me off in way east Rhovanion. This little squeaker is my hedgehog friend. He has no name, but I think-“

“Do not take us so eager for a long talk, stranger.” Kemlek rumbled. “Our leader here is dying from disgusting wounds and here you are going on and on and on. Can you help us or will you merely talk us all to death?”
“My deepest apologies, let me get right to it…” muttered the wizard as he lit a pipe and knelt with Mhulo.

A snapping twig brought Thoif back to the fold. The rain had ceased, but there were other worries at hand. The goat rider from the Iron Hills that had been introduced by the strange mage, Nasek was his name, had departed from their crew shortly after the healing of Mhulo. He had a “quick errand” to run, and gave promises of his return to them soon. They needed his help now more than ever, but wait they did.

Another tree in the distance was ruffled, and Thoif lay low, concealed and covered by wet leaves and dirt. As he peered into the forest in the direction of the noise, he discovered the culprit- a stray Uruk scout slowly crept through the drooping foiliage. Thoif had to warn the others, but how could he do so without alerting the enemy? There remained no easy answer, so he aimed and pulled the lever….

Ondoher’s Wrath- Brigade of the White City

With their pyrrhic victory against the goblin scum of Moria left Ondoher in a foul temperament. The evils of the enemy gave him quite a frustrated demeanor. Turgon could see that the injuries he suffered went further than that of the sword wounds he received. “Thank the Valar that there was no poison on the blade,” he thought. Trying to encourage his leader, he spoke up. “We can carry Hirgon back to the Farmer and allow him time to heal.” Hurin and Arveleg helped carry their fallen brother-in-arms.

“Brother, do not despair!” Said Turin, hoping to help lighten Ondoher’s spirits. “You may have been brought down by the scum, but you can’t expect to win every battle. We were outnumbered by the filth and their leader was able to throw down Hirgon, and you besides, but in any case, we did manage to  beat them senseless for it! Then they skittered away like the cowards they are!” Turin was rather pleased with how the battle had gone, having brought many of the Moria Rats down himself.

This did not encourage Ondoher any more. He remained silent as they finally arrived at the house fo the Farmer. As before, the man was kind to them and offered to let them all stay in the farmhouse with him for the time being, until Hirgon had the strength to leave himself. And they did stay for a fortnight.

The rest of the men were glad to find rest for a bit, but the rest did not help Ondoher. He was often pacing back and forth, reliving the battle in his head, thinking of what could have been done differently. But the fury of his heart would not be quenched by re-living the experience.

It was on the 14th day of rest that a new comer to the company arrived. Mablung, a spearman of Minas Tirith arrived, his strong hand brought with him. He was on a horse, and he was bringing a message  from Beren, the Steward’s son. This is how it read:

To Ondoher Lieutenant of the White Tower

News of the defeat in Eriador reached us quickly, which lead us to believe things were worse than i could have feared. I have decided to send  Mablung, the courier of this correspondence, to provide more assistance. The Steward believes his family to be one of hardy stock, and a strong arm. May he bolster your company.

I also bear news of another kind that i think will greatly benefit the Cause in the North. There is tell of a farm near the Misty Mountains that was burned to the ground. We are not sure if it was from an orc raid or from a natural fire, or something more sinister. That aside, there appears to be ancient dwarf relics hidden in it that our allies in the North believe could be a great asset. Items of ancient craft of the Sons of Durin that could help secure the alliances of some of the dwarves in the region that have come to their aid.

A dwarf of the Iron Hills named Mhulo seeks relics of his kin, and securing his loyalty to the cause of defending Arnor Could be of great benefit.  If you can successfully obtain this relic, you will be rewarded greatly. Indeed, with the horse Mablung rides on! I pray that your men can muster the fighting gumption to gather up this relics. Our Northern kin are in great need.  A map has been provided with the location.

Beren, Son of the Steward.

Ondoher saw that this was his chance to gain back the Honor that he had lost. “Stable this horse! We leave now. We cannot wait for Hirgon to  heal. We must leave at once!”

“Leave now? He is not yet on the mend!” replied Arveleg. “What are we to do? Just leave him here while we few go out tramping about these unfamiliar lands? How will he ever find us?”

“ We do not have time for this questions. Sir, you know this land, do you not?”

The old farmer agreed he did know the land and would tell Hirgon how to find them at the location of the Relic.

So it was that the men of Gondor set out again. they had traveled a few days nothing and no one hindering them. Ondoher was pushing them hard to their destination. But then, something happened even many wise would not expect.

Hurin, having keen sight, looked on the horizon. There was a number of ruinous walls here and there, but then he looked and saw a small shrine, a left over building of a by-gone age. in it stood the most unlikely imaginable enemy: the corrupt and evil Men of Rhûn. “Men of the East!” he cried.

Ondoher knew much of the Easterlings. Their people were a sworn enemy of Gondor, and were worshippers of the Dark Lord, once upon a time when he still walked Middle-Earth. Knowing what threat they could posed, he knew he could not let them stay in the region. It was the time for them to scare them off, showing that even the Might of Gondor was able to be dispatched this far North.

The men of Gondor setup behind a wall. Turgon and Hurin fired their bows, managing to strike down an warrior. “We have it now, men! “ Cried Ondoher. “Follow me! Form up!”

Forming a small shield wall, archers in the rear, the men of Gondor charged in to get up to another to setup a defensive position. Many of the enemy’s arrows flew, but none could penetrate their Gondorian shields and plate armor. Once to the wall, the scrap really began.

The enemy charged in, and in turn flanked the Men of Gondor. The Easterlings made great use of the reach of their pikes, only requiring one man to go toe to toe with Ondoher, but being support by 2 others.

As the two lines clashed, Turgon charged in with Arveleg, and made an attempt to take down their enemy to help  Turin beyond them, but was fought back by the ferocious  response of the single warrior. Turin would fight, and fall on his own.

The Men of Minas Tirith  rumbled with the enemies of Rhûn for some time, but one by one, they all fell. Mablung, the new comer was able to hold his ground, but the battle was not longer in his favor against the many. It was in this moment that he fled, knowing there was no honor in dying when his brothers needed tending to.

Mablung lost the Easterlings, but was able to come back around and gather his comrades up. He hid them quickly, and they rested for some time.

He sat long silently in defense of his friends, when he heard a rustling in the woods. He readied himself to shove his spear into the face of the first Easterling that came through… But then appeared a familiar face. A young warrior of Gondor made his approach. “Well, what has you on the swords edge, friend?’ He suddenly looked around, “Is the enemy at hand?” He drew his sword… It was Malbeth, a long time friend of Mablung. They had gone through the basic training together, and became fast friends through their duties.

“You nearly caught a spear to the eye, halfwit! We were waylaid by Easterlings and many fell.

“Then i suppose that means it is good that i followed you here! It would have been terribly dull without you to scrub the floor of the barracks with me,” replied Malbeth in a hushed voice. “Looks like you could use a hand.”

Mablung sighed.  “You are a fool, but a welcome site nonetheless. They may court martial you for leaving your post.”

“Then i expect a shining recommendation from you when this Ondoher asks about it.”

With that, they sat quietly, awaiting for the company to get the rest they needed. Before long, they all made a Full recovery, but Turin received a wound that would remain with him for some time, and Arveleg was would not be able to fight for some time.

Snaga’s Finest Hour in Mirkwood

Snaga and his orcs bullied their way through the forest.  The elves had to be near, and they would not escape the wrath that was due them.  Snaga swore the oath to see the remnants of their cowardly company slain and their heads put on pikes.

The others gave Snaga a wide berth.  Since the night time encounter with the dark master, and the battle with the elven battle company, the orc had undergone significant changes.  Once small, he now appeared larger.  Not hulking, but larger in presence.

His skin had darkened and cracks appeared like dried mud.  Snaga’s eyes were the most disturbing of all.  Filled with an ethereal light, they were empty pools of hate that terrified even the stoutest of his orc warriors.

The forest darkened around them and soon they realized that they were lost.  Snaga said not a word.  He kept along the ancient path, letting the fates guide him to his destination.  He had heard of Mirkwood, full of elven sorcery and witchcraft that was built to confuse and befuddle those that went in.

Forward.  Forward was the only way.

Webbing became visible.  A little at first, like wisps of silk, but getting heavier and heavier as they progressed further in.  Large shapes, cocooned in webs, hung from the tree limbs.

Snaga’s orcs were clearly nervous.  Fear began creeping into their bellies.  The scent of it was thick.

Lister, the warg riding orc scout, padded up next to Snaga as they walked.

“There are enemies about great Snaga.”  The cowardly scout said, avoiding eye contact.  “Spiders and other fell creatures.  We can sense them watching.”

Snaga regarded his scout for a moment as they walked before speaking.  His voice was darker, deeper, and full of the dark master’s authority.

“If they are foolish enough to attack, we will claim their forest kingdom for our own.”  Snaga said with bravado.

A screeching sound was heard off beyond the thick trees.  Scuttling shapes could be seen in the canopy of leaves above.

“And foolish they seem to be.”  the orc barbarian Grumshaz muttered, taking a swig of brownish liquid from his skin before hefting his large military pick in two great hands.

Scenario:  Mirkwood Forest
The game lasts 9 turns.  Snaga’s orcs must last until the end of the game, or the game ends when their force drops to 25% of its size, meaning if three models remain the orcs lose.

The orcs would face four respawning mirkwood spiders which would randomly spawn in up to six different forest locations on the table.

Spiders dont’ care about terrain and climb over intervening terrain with ease, so trying to bottleneck them would be a challenge.  The key would be to try to keep the spiders engaged with either a swarm of orc attacks, or find a way to keep them one on one so only one orc could drop as spiders have two attacks each and could drop two warriors a turn each with good rolls.

Three of the four spiders spawned in the same area to the left of the image above, while one spawned to the right.

Turns 1 – 3

Snaga had his main force back to the cliff to defend it, while Lister on his warg broke off the flank to keep himself safe and look for opportunities to charge a flank as needed (provided he could pass a Courage 2 terror check… )

Snaga wanted to minimize contact as long as possible.  The two orc archers climbed the tree behind them to get better vantage.  Blish, the orc assassin, managed to land a poisoned arrow into the eye of one of the spiders coming in.

However… the spiders did not care about the tree and one climbed up and over it, taking Blish out while leaving Tasty to remain in the tree.

Still, going into the middle of the battle with only losing a single orc was doing pretty well!

The spider along the right side of the picture (shown as the bottom above) attacked the cliff edge twice but couldn’t get through the orc defenses stationed there, even taking a wound for its troubles!

Turn 6

The spiders managed to whittle down a few orcs, but by turn 6 there were still 8 models standing.  Snaga kept himself and two others nearby, hoping his Terror would keep the remaining spiders at bay, while the three on the cliff were succeeding at holding that down.

With three spiders moving in, Iggy Yellow Mug charged forward at one of the spiders.  It was a reckless move but one that would hopefully buy Snaga and his warriors time.  The other spiders had to charge him as well since he was the closest enemy, and then Iggy did something that was amazing… he shielded and with his two attack dice won a duel against six duel dice coming back at him… surviving an additional turn and keeping the attacks off of Snaga’s main group.

Iggy’s sacrifice would be remembered, for he rolled a ‘6’ on promotion later on, becoming an orc hero…

Turn 9

The spiders were dying, but more were spawning.  Fortunately for Snaga they were spawning in the same areas.  The cliff wall was eventually lost, and Lister couldn’t manage to pass a single courage check to charge a spider, preferring to keep himself and his warg safe.

The final turn approached and the spiders had to drop two orcs to feast on their rancid flesh and win the scenario.

One orc fell…. then the cliff side battle was won in favor of Snaga.  It came down to Mr. Snaga and the last spider.  The spider won the duel… but failed to wound the terrifying orc leader.

With that, elven hunters moved into the area and began dispatching the spiders.   Snaga, realizing that he was best off not seen at all, took his injured company and slunk off into the shadows where they were able to rest and recoup.

Snaga’s finest hour and first victory in the campaign… and what a turning point it could be!

5 influence gained
Rolled a special which turns out to be a Black Numenereon (with influence bump to add 1 to the roll)

Almost all of the orcs leveled as they were all on the cusp.

Meetles, Tanakash, Yoz, and Iggy Yellow Mug all rolled “6” on their promotion roll, making them heroes.

Eskir the Oiled was promoted to a Morranon Orc.

Gorn the Black was recruited into the warband as a black numenereon warrior.

Grumshaz the barbarian hero bumped his fight value to 4.

Bilsh the orc assassin received Steady Aim.

Now that Snaga and his warriors are out of Mirkwood… vengeance will be dealt.

Beneath the Boughs of Mirkwood

Having long departed from home, your battle company has begun a long journey in pursuit of enemy forces.  Your company must either traverse the dense woodland terrain of Mirkwood, or spend many more weeks going around.

Opting to press onward along the winding and gloomy paths, it is not long before the powers of the wood begin to take hold.

Doubt and confusion start to seep into the minds of those within the forest, clouding their judgement and leading them away from the safety of the path.  Now they are hopelessly lost within the constant gloom of the forest, and some cannot shake the feeling that they are being watched…

The truth is far worse than they feared.

Over Caradhras

The trek through the wilds was a journey that the Company fared well in. After having fought the Uruk Hai and the troll, the path toward Rivendell was clear. It would still take the company of rangers another week to reach the hidden valley of Imladris. When they finally reached the vale, their hearts were renewed with vigor and hope. They were greeted by Elrond and given shelter in his Homely House. Each member of the company was given leave to wander and delight in the elvish paradise. Most sat in the hall of fire and enjoyed its warmth along with the songs and poetry of the elves. Others wandered about the beautiful valley from end to end, basking in its sight. As enjoyable and refreshing as Rivendell may have been, the mission to Mirkwood was still uncompleted. After three days of rest, the company was ready to go back on the road again.

As they were preparing to leave, two fellow rangers in full battle gear approached the company. These two were not unfamiliar to the company, as they had conversed with them greatly during their time in Rivendell. They strode up to Tarandir and said “we wish to join you”. With a smile on his face and a pat on their backs Tarandir replied “we would be happy to have you”. Their names were Eradan and Calenor. With the coming of two new comrades, the company of seven became nine.

The happiness that Eradan and Calenor’s coming was however short lived. The pass over the Redhorn gate is typically a treacherous one. The snow and rocks of the pass have proven in the past to be as deadly as any orc. To make matters worse the goblins of the misty mountains had been seen prowling about during the night, doing some unknown bidding for their dark masters.

As the company climbed up the slopes of the Misty Mountains, the snow capped peak of Caradhras got closer and closer. Brognir began to speak of the mountain as it grew above them. “Elrond lost his wife atop this pass underneath the looming peak of that damnable mountain. It is said that orcs and goblins, otherwise afraid of the sun are given shelter from its rays by the shadow of Caradhras. Some say the mountain itself grew so that orcs may wander atop the world in defiance of the sun.” For indeed this seemed true as they made their way through the pass, the shadow of the mountain seemed to grow longer and longer.

In the midst of the shadow, despite the darkness, something could be seen glittering resplendently. The company was drawn toward this light by their own curiosity. But as it turns out they were not the only ones to have been drawn toward the shining light. A group of Goblins began clamoring over the rocks and skittering toward it. Along with them was a cave troll. Shielded from the sun by the Mountain, it lumbered toward the small light.

Quickly Tarandir shouted for Courinir to help him cover the right flank, along with Amdir and the two brothers. Eradan, Brognir, Calendor and Adenhad went up the middle. As the troll advanced, Tarandir and Corunir peppered it with arrows hurting it gravely. In fear it was driven back toward the other goblins. The three warriors were then free to move up and secure the source of the light. They were however too late, two goblins had already taken hold of the object and were making off with it. The three of them made after them in a dead sprint. Meanwhile Corunir downed a goblin with his bow and the four men in the middle made way toward the right flank. The troll had regained his courage after having reconsolidated with the goblins and was now making his way back toward the object. Amdir, and Eadrick were the first to meet the two goblins in combat. Quickly they killed him, and he dropped the object. They could see that it was a stone with a pale blue light that was very pretty to look upon. They were drawn toward the objects beauty, but were pulled away from it by the battle that surrounded them. Having been distracted by the stone, they were open to assault whilst the rest of the rangers were still out of range. Just then the troll came barreling down the mountain in a rage.RIGHT before he made contact, Amdir charged the troll head on. Seeing him charge the troll, the two brothers forgot all fear and followed into the combat with him. In a major feat of prowess and strength, Amdir parried the blows of the troll and with his sword, and cleaved off its head. For an instant the battle stopped as the goblins were paralyzed in fear, and the rangers stopped in surprise. The interlude was short and both companies continued on with their bloody business. The three began fighting again and slew another goblin. Finally the other goblins and rangers met In combat, but at this point the goblins were severely weakened and stood no chance against the rangers. Quickly they fell one by one until they either fell or fled the field of battle.

Strewn across the battle field were many dead goblins along with the severed head of the troll. However not all of the goblins died. One goblin lay in a pool of his own blood whimpering and crying. Tarandir strode up to the pitiful creature and asked its name. It replied “Me Gitnick. You kill my pet. You will die!” Tarandir put his sword to the creature’s throat. In recognition of the gesture, it put its arms up to indicate surrender. He asked the creature “where are the orcs coming from”. Gitnick replied “me only tell if you no kill”.  He replied back “I shall keep my word, only if you keep yours”. Gitnick was reluctant at first, but said “me no like orcs, they mean. Me show you where they come from”.

Mr. Snaga faces the woodland elves

Scenario:  Hold the Line
The elves are traveling through the pastures near their woodland realm when Mr. Snaga and his orc raiders bar their egress.  They must get 33% of their company off of the opposite table edge, which turns out to be two of their number.  Mr. Snaga must prevent this.  The game is over when all elf models are either casualties or off of the table.

Mr. Snaga must set his force within 6″ of the center of the table.  The elves will move in from the table edge in front of them.  The elven roster currently has 37 more battle value, so Snaga gains two re-rolls and an additional two influence points.

Snaga still has not managed to gain any skills and neither have the disgruntled orcs that he has been leading.  With the terror of the dark master in the heart of Snaga, he knows his time on middle earth may be coming to a close if he cannot post a victory on this country lane.

“He’s watching Snaga.  Maybe we ought let these elves get the best of us if only so Meetles leads!”  The orc barbarian Meetles called over to Snaga.  Snaga grimaced at his rival and ran the edge of his poisoned blade over his tongue, relishing the sting of the venom.

“Maybe Meetles head be adoring my lovely spike tonight.”  Snaga retorted.

The elves move onto the table.  The elf ranger Thessia and two of her warriors head into the woods while the remaining elf battle line occupies the other side of the road.

The orcs clamber up the country lane, with the warg rider peeling off to the flank in an effort to either draw the elves off to the side of the battlefield, or funnel them back over the road.

Meanwhile, the orc archer Tasty begins climbing the ancient tree to get a better vantage.  Sadly, he slips and falls to the ground, knocking himself out of the battle.

The orc hero assassin Bilsh shakes his head and runs over to take his place, vaulting up the tree with a bit more dexterity and positioning himself with a good vantage point to take some shots with his poisoned bow.

The orcs hurtle toward the elf line.  There is a large gap on the right side of the road though, and Thessia begins to take advantage of this hole in the orc line.

The elves run toward their commander and consolidate their position.

The warg comes into view as the orcs drive into the elf line.  An elf with a glaive takes on one of the orcs with a great weapon, and the greater skill wins the duel and the day as the orcs drop another of their number.

The clash of weapons rings out across the countryside.

The elves charge into the orc line while Thessia and her archer and glaive warrior move through the forest while Bilsh pelts at them with his bow.  The elves are able to drop another orc and win the rest of the duels, pushing the orc line back.

To this point, the orcs have lost all six duel rolls and are down three warriors with the elves having a wide open shot to getting off the battlefield and winning the scenario.

The orc hero Grumshaz, favored by the dark masters, begins evening the odds… sinking his double handed axe into an elf warrior.

The elves take advantage of the distracted orcs and begin quickly moving up the road.  Mr Snaga begins giving chase, while Bilsh continues his ineffective pelting of the elves with his orc bow.

Thessia and her two heroes cross the middle of the battlefield… Mr Snaga and his warriors giving chase and the warg rider closing the gap.  The elves continue to win priority rolls and continue to keep outpacing the orcs.

The warg and his hunter ride hard into the lead elf, attempting to intercept the woodland warrior and cut off his escape!

The warg hits but the orcs cannot catch a break on the duel rolls and he is repelled.   The shielding ability is really doing wonders.

The elves continue winning all of the priority rolls and are easily outdistancing the pursuing Mr. Snaga and his raiders.  Victory is almost in their grasp!

Bilsh is finally able to connect a shot to the ranger Thessia as she is now out in the open, and scores a fatal wound!  Alas fate and the use of a might point keep Thessia in the battle…

The warg hits again, and is once again repelled by the shielding elf hero.

Mr. Snaga scores his second kill of the game by dropping the elf ranger for good, leaving her two heroes to try to get off the table and win the game!

The warg rider hits one of the heroes and is again repelled while the other is hit with three orc warriors.  Shielding wins the day yet again and the elf heroes will not go down!

Winning priority, one of the elf heroes makes it off the table while the other is a mere inch away from ending the game.  The warg strikes again and is once again repelled by the shielding hero.  It will come down to priority!  If the hero wins it, he is off the table and wins the game!

The orcs win the priority and the elf hero is hit again by the warg, this time losing the duel and falling to the ground!  Once again priority roll can end the game as the elf can crawl off the table…

The orcs win priority!  Surely this is it!  The elf hero is surrounded on all sides!  Five orcs rain hell down on the elf who is hiding underneath his shield.  He manages to score a “6” on his duel dice… and thus defeats the other five orcs and drives them back an inch…

…. where he then wins priority and bolts off the table, leaving Snaga once again in defeat.

End Result:  Two elf warriors escaped the table, thus securing the victory for the woodland realms.

This was not without its cost though.  Thessia suffered an old battle wound which will haunt her, and three of her warriors will miss the next game from serious injuries suffered at the hands of Snaga.

The orcs lost Meetles for the next game with an injury.  Mr. Snaga finally reached a bonus skill, and reaching deep into his twisted black heart, summoned forth the flames of his dark master.

His skin cracks and a dark aura radiates from him… for now Mr. Snaga causes Terror.

With another defeat underneath him however… his future remains uncertain.